Mile High Dreams
by Lawson227
Summary: Taking a wee bit of inspiration from Loafer's CONTRIVED ONE SHOT series, this is just a smutty little one—okay, now MULTI—shot involving our favorite cranky detective and… someone. Oh, don't look at me like that, you'll find out who by the end.
1. Mile High Dreams

**Mile High Dreams**

Taking a wee bit of inspiration from Loafer's _Juliet on the Edge_ series, this is just a smutty little one shot involving our favorite cranky detective and… someone.

**DISCLAIMER: **Yeah, got nothing but my silly-will-never-see-it-played-out-on-the-TV-screen-ideas. No infringement intended. So there.

* * *

The upgrade to First Class had been unexpected, but definitely welcome, especially since she and Carlton had been unceremoniously bumped from the early evening flight to the far less convenient red eye. Now, instead of getting into D.C. impossibly late but at least with the opportunity to catch a few hours' sleep in an actual bed, they'd be landing barely in time to make the first session of their seminar. Normally, she enjoyed attending law enforcement seminars—not simply for the information and the opportunity to commiserate and pick the brains of cops from across the country, but because they also provided a nice break from the daily grind.

_And…_

Okay, yes, She had to acknowledge the _And_… She sighed as she settled more comfortably into her plush seat, draping the complimentary blanket over her lap. She couldn't deny she was welcoming the opportunity to observe Carlton outside the workplace. Admittedly, a law enforcement conference wasn't all that far removed from work, but it was at least away from the precinct and Santa Barbara and hell, even California. Away from his natural environment. It could only be good for him, given how withdrawn and taciturn he'd grown in the months since his engagement to Marlowe had abruptly ended. No reason, no explanation, and if asked, the only response he'd offer was a chilly blue "back off" stare. He was so obviously riding a dangerous edge even Shawn had temporarily ceased yanking his chain—a possibility she wouldn't have ever imagined had she not witnessed it herself.

Her heart hurt for him. It was hell losing someone you loved. She _knew_. And she wished she could talk to him about it, let him know she understood, but that was just a topic—one of so damned many—she couldn't bring herself to broach with him.

Easier to keep conversations work-related and rely on her powers of observation to read between the lines. After all, Shawn wasn't the only person with skills. She wouldn't excel at her job without them. So when it came to Carlton, she'd do what she'd been doing for a long time—watch and listen and if she felt the need to step in, she would, damn any walls he threw up or armor he chose to don.

"We'd better try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to suck hard enough."

She glanced up from the book she'd ostensibly been reading while her mind had been wandering to find Carlton neatly placing his shoes side by side beneath the seat in front of him before fully extending the foot rest and reclining the seat as far back as it could go, making a fairly passable sleeping berth, even with his long legs. His jacket and tie were already stashed in the overhead compartment and he'd undone second button on his shirt, no doubt allowing for a bit more freedom of movement.

It also resulted in exposing a bit more of his chest, especially as he shifted, shoving the pillow beneath his head and shaking the blanket over his legs and oh, hey, was it getting warm in here or what? Never mind that the cabin temperatures hovered just shy of Arctic, she was all of a sudden feeling more than a little flushed, tiny beads of sweat popping up along her hairline.. An interesting sensation coupled with the goosebumps peppering her legs beneath the hem of her suit skirt.

_Whoa, girl, rein it in. You've neither of you been single all that long. Not to mention, that whole coworker thing you have such issues with?_

_I know, I _know_. It's unprofessional. Probably tacky. But 'single' and 'alone' are two very different qualifiers and alone trumped single a long damned time ago. _

_I'm so damned tired of being alone._

She hid another sigh beneath a smile he didn't notice because he'd already closed his eyes. Slipping the book into the seatback in front of her, she followed his lead in adjusting the seat and stretching out beneath the blanket. Try as she might, though, she couldn't quite get comfortable.

After several tries, Carlton sighed and without opening his eyes, lifted the armrest between them that had insisted on jabbing her, no matter what position she tried to settle into. She'd resisted asking if she could move it because she sensed he preferred the safety of some sort of barrier—never mind the seats were at least much wider than what they would have had riding in steerage. She'd also resisted because of her own predilection for gravitating towards the warmest thing while sleeping. It was a risk she'd have to take, however, if she wanted to try to get _any_ sleep.

At the outset, a risk that seemed to pay immediate dividends, as the removal of the armrest coupled with the steady breathing of the man beside her, helped to soothe her into a sense of relaxation that quickly turned to drowsiness that led to that delicious sense of warmth that generally immediately preceded falling completely under. It had been so long since she'd experienced the promise of a truly deep sleep.

Soothing.

Welcoming.

Like an embrace. Holding her close as she fell further and further under. Surrounding her in warmth, like… like… the sun—no… the unique warmth that could only come from another body.

So long since she'd experienced that feeling.

She wanted more.

She wanted the closeness. She wanted to feel… _more_.

_More…_

_Shh… we- we can't. You don't know what you're saying._

_I do._

_Do you?_

_Yes… I want you… _

_We _can't_._

_Please._

_Oh, God… we shouldn't._

_Please, Carlton—_

It was her use of his name that seemed to break down the last of his resistance. The warmth surrounding her gradually increased as one arm held her closely while his free hand moved slowly across her body, cupping, stroking, his fingers teasing the vee of her blouse open wider and wider, with each button slipped free. With the lightest of touches, he reached in, past the flimsy barrier of her bra, to tease first one breast, then the other, his mouth ghosting over hers in a kiss as tender and gentle as his caresses to her body.

So gentle—yet no one would believe it.

She would, though.

She'd suspected.

And now she knew.

And still she wanted—

_More…_

_Shh…_

Again, his whispered entreaty, but this one carried more the weight of conspiracy, because what they were doing was so very illicit and so very naughty and so very unlike them and he was right—they shouldn't. But she needed him. Needed more.

That gentle, roving hand ranged down… down… along the side of one of her thighs to the hem of her skirt and then it went up… up… between her thighs, searching out where she was warmest and yet not warm enough… not yet… but like a very grownup variation on the old playground game of Hot and Cold, she was progressively growing hotter as he got closer.

As his hand settled completely between her thighs, his mouth closed fully over hers, swallowing her gasp. For the first time, she felt his tongue, teasing, at first, like his caresses, then more impatient as her thighs fell open and he felt her heat and how damned much she wanted him.

She wished she could tell him how much she'd wanted him and for how long, but she knew he'd never believe her. Even in the middle of _this_ he'd never believe her.

But she could show him.

She lifted a leg over his, pressing herself to his hand, silently asking…_more_.

Breathing a sigh into her mouth, all cinnamon spice and warm male, he pushed aside the thin, damp layer of fabric, two fingers immediately sinking deep into her as a third sought out the most sensitive spot. His free hand remained firmly anchored in her hair, holding her steady as he kissed her and touched her and murmured words she would have never expected to hear from this reserved man—certainly not about _her._

_So beautiful… so warm… you feel so good… so damned good… everything I ever imagined… I can't believe we're… oh, God, I can't— _I _want more…_

Carlton held her and swallowed her gasps and as her body grew tighter and tighter and his hand moved with more deliberation, he pulled her close, her face against his neck where she could breathe him and taste him, the salt and the sweat, and when her orgasm hit, sink her teeth into his skin, sucking hard as she swallowed a cry because even though this was a dream… the best dream… the most _amazing_ dream… a part of her remained aware of where they were and how very bad it would be if they—two officers of the law—were caught doing… this.

Trembling with the aftershocks, she slowly released her hold on his neck, her tongue soothing the spot that felt hot to the touch as he slowly withdrew his hand from her body.

_More…_

He rested his hand over hers for a brief moment, held her close to his arousal before gently, yet firmly moving it away. But not completely away, as he drew their joined hands up to his chest where his heart raced just as fast as hers.

_No._

_Carlton—_

_We can't. _

_You don't want me._

_Oh dear God, that is the furthest thing from the truth._

For a brief moment he pulled her hand back down between his legs, to the obvious truth supporting his words.

_I want you. But I'll be damned if I go any further here. We do this, we do it in a bed. Naked, because I want to see your body wrapped around mine, want to feel you against me, skin-to-skin. I want us to be looking into each other's eyes and know what's happening._

_You… do?_

_Yeah. I do. Now, you should really get some rest. Otherwise, tomorrow is really going to suck._

_Promises, promises._

To her surprise, a soft chuckle emerged. _You're adorable when you pout. _

His hands carefully rebuttoned her blouse and smoothed her skirt before tucking the blanket more securely around her.

_Now sleep._

_Will you at least hold me?_

_I was hoping you'd ask._

* * *

Red eye flight or not, that had been one of the _most_ soothing nights of sleep she'd experienced in a long damned time. Not restful, per se, given the, er… nature of the dreams she'd experienced—but she honestly couldn't remember the last time she woke up feeling so sated and refreshed and downright _good_.Thank God by the time she'd woken, Carlton had already retreated to the lavatory, giving her the opportunity to do the same and hopefully pull herself into a reasonable facsimile of a competent, professional woman and not a shameless hussy who'd been having highly graphic erotic dreams about a coworker. She'd returned to their seats after several minutes to find him sipping coffee and looking as polished and buttoned-up as ever, if not particularly rested.

And she'd so _hoped_, dammit. But maybe now that they were at the hotel, he would finally be able to get some rest. They'd made it through the morning sessions and the obligatory welcome lunch with the assistance of more than a few ventis from the conveniently located Starbucks, but after glancing at the afternoon schedule, they decided that there were no sessions important or interesting enough to trump a hot shower and maybe even a nap before the dinner and keynote.

Mmm… a nap.

Again, the delicious sense of warmth that had lulled her to sleep the night before took up residence, low in her stomach and began winding its way through the muscles of her arms and legs, leaving her feeling weighty and lethargic and wanting nothing more than to curl up beside Carlton and _whoa—hey. _

_Not the place_. _At least make it up to your room where you can draw the shades… run a nice, hot bath… imagine blue eyes and strong, long-fingered hands—_

"May I help you?"

She and Carlton stepped up to the counter.

"Checking in—two rooms," she said.

"Of course. Names?"

"Carlton Lassiter and—" She paused, biting her lip as she fumbled to free her I.D. and the credit card she used for official city business from the clutches of her new wallet.

"Karen Vick." She smiled. "The reservations might be under Santa Barbara Police Department."

"Of course—" The clerk quickly scanned the cards. "Here you go. Twelfth floor, two rooms, king-sized beds, adjoining."

Carlton's eyes widened. "The beds?"

The clerk laughed. "The rooms, sir."

As Carlton scrubbed his hand over reddened cheeks, Karen met the clerk's amused gaze. "Long day."

"Understood."

With the majority of the conference attendees occupied with the afternoon slate of seminars, the elevator was blessedly empty and quiet and maybe it was because of this, that Carlton finally allowed himself to droop—wide shoulders slumping beneath the dark fabric of his jacket, the circles beneath his eyes suddenly more pronounced. Even their normally vivid blue seemed dimmed as his head dropped against the wood-paneled wall of the elevator.

"Long-assed day," he said softly as he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his dress shirt.

And all she could do was stare.

Immediately, exhaustion turned to concern as he met her gaze.

"Karen?"

In that long, drawn-out moment—still silent, still staring—his hand rose, as it often did, to nervously straighten his collar, only to freeze, concern turning to alarm.

"Oh, _crap_."

Unnecessary confirmation, delivered in inimitable Carlton Lassiter style, because the moment she'd spotted the fingers of that graceful, long-fingered hand resting against the livid purple-red mark, she'd _known_.

"It wasn't a dream."


	2. Grounded in Reality

**Grounded in Reality**

**AN: **I had so many requests to see the reaction to the events of _Mile High_ from Carlton's POV, I decided to add a second chapter. Whether it ends here or not, I don't know. Obviously, at this point, we know who the mystery woman was, but I'm leaving the story properties as is, for anyone new to the story.

* * *

_More…_

_Shh… we- we can't. You don't know what you're saying._

_I do._

_Do you?_

_Yes… I want you… _

_We _can't_._

_Please._

_Oh, God… we shouldn't._

_Please, Carlton—_

_..._

He thought he'd been dreaming when he felt her turn into him, warm and pliant and wanting, except he'd been wide awake. Sleep, never his friend under the best of circumstances, had become a taunting little bastard of late, teasing him with the promise of sweet oblivion and forgetfulness before merrily skipping away with a mocking laugh, sounding annoyingly like Spencer at his obnoxious best. Night after night, he'd be left staring at his ceiling, wondering when in hell everything had gone so damned screwy.

Except he knew. He knew when and he knew how and most importantly, knew why.

Then he found himself thirty-five thousand feet in the air, in the dark, with _why_ curling into him and asking for the unimaginable. Asking him by _name _in a throaty voice laced with want and unmistakable certainty. That certainty—his name whispered in a way he'd never before heard from her—had been the tipping point. The reassurance he wasn't simply a convenient warm body or worse still, some poor substitute for someone else.

She had wanted _him_.

Even so, he should have said no. Should have woken her fully and brought her to her senses. Should have turned away and pretended ignorance. There were so damned many things he _should_ have done. Except he was goddamned tired of all the _should haves _that had dictated so much of his life.

He was just so goddamned tired of fighting.

Especially this.

It was the most singularly ill-advised and unprofessional move in a career littered with more than a few of them.

It was the most singularly astounding moment of his entire life.

And the moment she realized it hadn't been a dream?

The most singularly terrifying moment—_ever_.

* * *

"Are we going to talk about this?"

Her voice was soft, yet nevertheless carried clearly through the locked door separating their rooms. Why in the hell had that officious little twerp thought they'd want adjoining rooms anyhow? Just because they were coworkers? For all he knew, they could hate each other. Imagine being in a room adjoining someone like… like Spencer, for God's sake.

It'd taken him six months to pay off the credit card bill from the hotel debacle nearly seven years earlier.

Not that he actually considered Spencer a coworker and why in hell was he thinking of that asshat right now and—

"Carlton."

His rambling, panicked train of thought skidded to a screeching halt at the sound of her voice.

Son of a bitch.

That _voice_.

The voice from First Class. The voice that had gotten him into all this trouble in the first place.

"Carlton, open the door."

He stared at the door, frozen.

"Okay, look, we don't have to talk about it—I just want to ask you one thing."

Tried like hell to gauge the likelihood he could slip out of the room, the hotel, the city, and quite possibly the country before she noticed his absence.

"Please."

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

That voice could end him if he let it.

Would he let it?

He stood and crossed to the door, slowly turning the key and pulling it open.

Guess so.

And if her voice was enough to end him, there was no describing what her eyes could do. That sharp, dark gaze, owner of a thousand mysteries that had intrigued him for way too long. If she'd opened those eyes during their mile-high encounter, there's no way he could have said no to any damned thing she wanted, regardless of the danger.

Which was exactly why he couldn't risk looking into them, keeping his gaze resolutely focused on the carpet separating the shiny polished toes of his shoes from her enticingly bare feet, the nails painted a surprising and shockingly sultry blue-green that brought to mind a peacock's feather.

Idly, he recalled that it was the male peacock who tended to have the vibrant plumage, designed to attract a mate, while the peahens were typically drab. Talk about role reversal.

"Did you mean it?"

Risk be damned—his gaze rose, met her typically direct one, except for once, it wasn't direct. Hesitant, it met his for only the briefest instant before shifting to stare past him, as if terrified.

Karen Vick was never terrified.

Ever.

Certainly not of _him_.

"Mean what?" To his own ears, his voice sounded strangled and distant, as if being wrenched from the deepest part of him.

"Everything you said—" Her shoulders rose and fell with a shuddery breath. "About me."

_So beautiful… so warm… you feel so good… so damned good… everything I ever imagined… I can't believe we're… oh, God, I can't— _I _want more…_

"About…us," she added on a near-whisper.

_We do this, we do it in a bed. Naked, because I want to see your body wrapped around mine, want to feel you against me, skin-to-skin. I want us to be looking into each other's eyes and know what's happening._

The words flowed through his mind as accurately as if he'd just uttered them, the memory of her body pressed to his, the sensation of his hand, still damp from pleasuring her, holding hers close to his heart washing over him with devastating impact and dammit, she was right there.

Right _there._ So close. The _want_ rolling off her in waves that reached out to draw him closer and closer…

"Every damned word."

She barely had time to sigh before his mouth was over hers, tongue invading, refusing to wait for the invitation he didn't need anyway, as she opened to him immediately, hands buried in his hair, pulling him even closer, demanding he explore more fully.

Inviting him to _own_ her.

He couldn't stop to think about this. He'd already thought too damned much. Had thought he _couldn't_ and _shouldn't_. Had considered all the implications and the potential fallout and every damned reason this was a Very Bad Idea and screw all that.

She wanted _him_. Everything else faded into insignificance by comparison.

Dimly, he registered his jacket hitting the floor—felt a wash of cool air as she quickly divested him of tie and shirt while he had far less work to do, as in addition to having shed her shoes, she'd already lost the sober professional jacket she'd worn over the sleeveless blouse he'd so carefully unbuttoned the night before, terrified she'd wake up. Praying she wouldn't even as he berated himself for taking unfair advantage. Now, none of that mattered, prompting him to pull impatiently at thin fabric, feeling a deep-seated pang of almost shameful pride as he heard a faint rip, felt a button skitter across the back of his hand before falling soundlessly to the carpet, the blouse landing at their feet. The bra—silky and cream-colored—went next, the single hook sliding free with an easy flick of his fingers, her arms dropping away from exploring his chest only long enough for the straps to slide down her arms. An instant later, her arms were around his back, her soft breasts rubbing against his chest with a spine-tingling drag as she rose on tiptoes to fasten her mouth to the mark she'd made the night before, the pull of her teeth and lips on the sensitive skin sending a charge right down to where he was already painfully aroused.

Carlton's head fell back, exposing himself, allowing her to own him. This woman—this strong, independent, fiery woman—_owned_ him.

"Is a bed absolutely necessary?" she gasped, her breath hot and damp against his sensitive skin. One hand snaked between them to press against his erection before smoothly sliding the zipper down on his slacks and reaching in for a more complete caress.

White lights streaking across his vision he groaned, "Next time." His searching fingers found the zipper at the side of her waist, tugging it down, shoving skirt and underwear down in one motion. "Naked, however, is non-negotiable."

"Damned straight," she muttered, shoving his pants down as he kicked off shoes and socks.

"Damned straight," he echoed, as he pulled one of her thighs up over his hip, his free arm wrapped around her back as she took hold and guided him into her. As he drove himself home, her eyes began drifting closed, prompting him to shove just a little harder, their bodies meeting with a jolt that caused her eyes to snap open.

"That's non-negotiable, too," he muttered, moving his hand from her back to her face, his thumb tracing the delicate rise of a cheekbone beneath one of those beautiful eyes.

"I know what's happening, Carlton." Locking her hands behind his neck, she ground hard against him, hips moving in a tight circle that damned near turned his knees to Jell-O. "I know it's you. I want it to be you."

She did. It was there in those dark depths—translucent and surprisingly revealing.

"I still want to look into your eyes." Breathing deep, he began driving into her with a slow, deliberate rhythm, echoing what he'd done to her with his hand the night before, knowing already how her body responded to the slow build, the relentless stroking. What he hadn't known was how she'd give back as good as she got, her body strong enough to take all he had and return it in full measure.

"Keep them open."

"Okay."

"Promise," he ground out between clenched teeth, determined to see as much as possible—to see everything.

A slow blink, the expression in them dreamy, but they remained open. "I promise."

"So beautiful."

She gasped, "You said that last night."

"Meant it last night. Mean it now." He responded to the prompt of her fingernails digging into his shoulders by pushing harder, his hand sliding from her thigh to her hip, gripping tight.

Karen gasped again, her head falling back against the wall, but her eyes stayed open, trained on him, the expression in them holding him as closely as her body held him within her.

"_More_…"

Damn. That one word—delivered in the soft, throaty, sure voice that had started it all—drove him harder and faster. He reveled in the drag of their heated, sweat-slicked bodies against each other and the way she drew back as far as the wall would allow and met each of his thrusts with equal power, leveraging herself with a tight hold on his shoulders, her nails tiny arcs of fire that whispered _More… _as insistently as her voice With each thrust, Carlton gripped her hip tighter, damned certain he was marking her and damned certain neither of them cared, his other hand dropping to where they were joined, determined to make this climax better than the one before. Then he'd make the next one better than this one. And the next one… and the next one… He'd keep making the next one better for as long as she'd let him. So it was definitely in his best interests to make… this… one…

"God, Carlton… so _good_."

And damn if her eyes didn't stay open even as his closed at the feel of her body clenching tight around him, making him groan and lose himself in her.

Hell, who was he kidding?

Lying in the dark, staring up at the ceiling as she slept, body molded closely to his, Carlton knew he'd lost himself to Karen Vick a long damned time ago.


	3. Pushing the Envelope

**Pushing the Envelope**

**AN: **Yeah, another chapter. Apparently, I am incapable of writing a simple, smutty one-shot. Sorry.

* * *

"But Karen—"

"_Enough_." She held up a hand. "My decision is final."

"Oh, come _on_—"

"You've left me no choice, Carlton." She sighed and shoved a hand through her hair wishing they were talking about anything else. "You pulled your weapon—_again_. Without provocation—_again_."

Carlton's gaze bored into her, narrow, flinty chips of blue-gray. "It was _not_ without provocation," he ground out, his jaw clenched so tight she could clearly discern the twitching of the tiny muscles at the corners. "They were engaged in suspicious behavior."

"They were engaged in a national leadership conference and campout for Wilderness Guide leaders." Her heart beat faster and warmth snaked from her chest and out through her arms and legs, but she held his gaze unflinchingly.

"Jesus Christ, Karen—a bunch of men wearing olive drab shirts and gathered in a remote part of the mountains, reciting…" His eyes widened as mimicked her gesture of shoving a hand through his hair. "Whatever the hell it was they were reciting. Tell me how that's not suspicious."

"They were reciting a _pledge_, Carlton."

"Yeah, well, for all I knew, they were pledging their loyalty to the Führer," he snapped. "While wearing short pants and knee socks. It looked hinky."

She sighed, attempting to gather the shards of her patience while trying not to get too distracted by how damned attractive he looked in his anger and exasperation. Unsuccessfully, especially as he once again ran a long-fingered hand through his hair, leaving it far more disheveled than she ever saw it during a normal working day. In fact, the last time she'd seen his hair in that disarray of cropped black-and-silver curls and cowlicks had been—

_Focus_.

"And you somehow think wearing your service revolver while trail running couldn't be considered hinky?"

"Hey, you never know what sort of whackaloons you're going to come across up in the mountains," he grumbled. "Like grown men dressed like action figures and playing with ropes who _aren't_ Spencer and Guster."

Karen had to give him that one.

"Be that as it may, I still have no choice. Especially since the Lieutenant Governor was one of those grown men in the short pants and knee socks."

And looked every bit as ridiculous as Carlton had described, with his red neckerchief and the matching sock flashes, hairpiece ever-so-slightly askew as he'd pointed a shaking finger at her head detective and declared him a menace to society. In response, Karen had informed the pompous blowhard that he was denigrating a highly decorated police officer who only had his community's best interests at heart and really, did His Honor have a problem with a man so passionately invested in keeping his constituents safe from dangers both foreign and domestic?

The man might have been able to trap his own dinner and start a fire with nothing but two sticks, but had absolutely no answer for such a reasonably phrased question. Especially since she'd delivered it calmly, coolly, and with the fingers of her hand idly tapping against the butt of her own weapon. Still, she had to play nice with the Disgruntled Politician or risk having state funds allocated for her department mysteriously "disappear."

God, there were days she hated her job.

"Carlton."

Carlton crossed his arms, mouth set in a stern, mulish line as he stared past her.

"Please."

It took every ounce of fortitude she possessed to keep that word from emerging the way she wanted it to. With the intent she wanted it to convey. This was business.

An exasperated huff of breath escaped along with his clipped, "Fine." A moment later his service revolver and its magazine were laid on her blotter. Eyes a piercing, angry blue, he snapped, "How long?"

"A week."

"God_dammit_."

She took the weapon, still warm from its proximity to his body, and slipped it into the top drawer alongside hers. Out of his line of sight, she gave it a brief caress, before closing the drawer and locking it.

"I did tell the Lieutenant Governor his insistence of a month was unreasonable, not to mention, stupid."

"Asshat."

"Indeed."

His eyes widened at her response, the blue deepening, a sure sign he'd heard the subtle shift in her tone. After a long charged moment—one in which it seemed he was waiting for…_something_—he finally said, "I guess I'll get my things and clear out, then." He turned away.

"Carlton."

She spoke the word to his back, afraid, despite the relative reassurance she'd seen in his expression, that she might be wrong.

He froze, then slowly turned.

_So_ not wrong.

"You've been avoiding me all week."

Since their return from D.C. where they'd spent the entirety of the weeklong conference in a Jekyll and Hyde-like existence, split between the personas of responsible representatives of the Santa Barbara Police Department in public and fiery, insatiable lovers the rest of the time. Their last night, however, she'd stumbled, joking about all the money they could have saved the department if they'd only just given up one of their rooms after that first night.

It had been a mistake—that reminder of their real lives. He'd withdrawn, the color leeching from his eyes, his intensity draining away along with it and ever since they'd returned, he'd remained locked behind the familiar, safe armor of Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective.

Knowing he needed time, she'd simply waited.

But she had only so much patience. the vast majority of it invested in her job, the remainder, allocated to Iris. Where Carlton was concerned, it was in spectacularly short supply, especially after her so-thorough and in-depth introduction to the wonder that was Carlton, passionate lover.

She was damned tired of waiting.

The fine muscles worked along the long, beard-roughened column of his throat, an unusual sight within the confines of the SBPD, but then, it was Saturday, hence why he'd been out trail running in the mountains where he'd stumbled across some of the state's most upstanding citizens acting like potentially crazed whackaloons. She'd been called in to diffuse the situation and pander to the delicate political egos and what did it say about the current state of her life that she'd been grateful almost to the point of tears for the distraction. Grateful for altogether different reasons when she realized the situation involved Carlton.

"I thought," he said softly, "maybe it was an…" He swallowed again. "An aberration."

Karen blinked, instantly torn between hurt and fury. An aberration? An _aberration_? Still, she forced her voice to remain calm.

"Is that Lassiter-speak for scared shitless?"

To his credit, he held her gaze. "Pretty much."

Okay, fury was winning out. "You know, I'm well aware we didn't have opportunity to talk much beyond breathless assurances of how damned good it felt and repeated requests for more—" Red streaked across his cheekbones at her blunt words, prompting a corresponding warmth to bloom in her midsection, especially at the thought of _more_. "But I would have thought that a full week of that, not to mention the sex itself, would have convinced you it went far beyond aberration."

Karen slung her purse over her shoulder and swept her keys off the desk. "The Carlton I got to know last week would know what we have is way the hell beyond _aberration_. Moreover—" She rounded the desk and paused beside him, tilting her head back and hitting him with her best narrow-eyed stare.

"Last Week's Carlton wouldn't have hesitated to ascertain for himself whether or not it was a damned aberration." She all but spit the word out.

"Feel free to let me know if you're interested in figuring it out."

Her head spun as she turned away then found herself just as quickly whirled in the opposite direction, shuddering to a stop against the lean wall of his chest.

"That was quick," she gasped, breathing deep. He'd brought with him the scent of the outdoors, clean pine and woodsmoke and healthy, sweaty male coupled with the indefinable edginess that made him such a damned good cop. Such a magnificent lover.

"I figured it out a long damned time ago, Karen," he said, his mouth so close to hers she could practically taste the remnants of his morning coffee. "Long before I should have."

She'd have to file that statement away for further examination and make no mistake, it _would_ be examined further—but not right now. Right now she was too caught up in the feel of his mouth against hers, his tongue an aggressive invader, teeth firm against her lips, bruising and marking her as _his_. As she leaned more fully into him, he divested her of purse and keys, and pulled her arms up around his neck, not that she needed much invitation to wrap herself more completely around him, to sink more fully into the security of his embrace.

It was a dangerous game they played—blinds drawn and door closed, but not locked. It being the weekend the detective's bullpen was near-deserted but for the few essential personnel, yet any of them, knowing the Chief and her Head Detective were in the office, could choose to walk in at any time to discover the Chief being lifted to the edge of her desk, legs wrapped around said Head Detective's lean hips as he roughly shoved her t-shirt up, his quick inhale stealing her breath as he made the happy discovery she hadn't bothered with a bra this morning because for God's sake, it _was_ Saturday, she was on her own, and last thing she'd expected was to be playing Chief.

Karen was done with the Chief half of the equation. The playing on the other hand?

Oh hell, no. Despite the danger and sheer lunacy of what they were doing, she was nowhere _near_ done

Did she care?

She should. She really should.

One of them should.

But even her ever-responsible Head Detective seemed to be beyond caring, that dark head lowering, capturing first one breast, then the other in that hot mouth, his tongue teasing her nipples to hard points, teeth worrying skin that even a week later bore faint remnants of their magical D.C. interlude.

She'd worn those bruises with a pride that should have embarrassed her, but didn't. They were proof, dammit. All that had remained to remind her he _had_ explored every inch of her body with devastating thoroughness and it hadn't simply been the mother of all erotic dreams. Any other man tried to mark her like that, she would've knocked him into next week. From Carlton, however, it served as welcome evidence of the passion he kept so carefully hidden from the rest of the world.

Passion he'd been compelled to release for her, against what was clearly every better instinct he possessed.

He held power over her body, she held power over his soul. Hard to decide who had the upper hand, there. Maybe neither of them, since she suspected the reverse was also true.

Another thing to ponder… _later._

Because right now, she had wood, cool and slick beneath her skin as Carlton's busy hands unfastened and shoved her jeans far enough out of the way to allow him entry between her thighs while he continued lavishing attention on her breasts, leaving them damp and tingling with want. Her own hands in the meantime, pushed his far easier to maneuver sweats and boxers down just enough to release his erection, nudging now against her heat as his mouth returned to hers.

"This is crazy."

"It is," she muttered, shimmying to the desk edge, jeans and underwear falling to catch on her ankles.

"We could get so busted."

"We could." She tilted her hips up to a more accommodating angle, supported by his large warm hand at the base of her spine.

"You don't care?" For the first time, a hint of the Carlton she might have expected crept into his words, hesitant, as if terrified they might cause her to reconsider.

"Not as much as I should." Her hands snaked up beneath his t-shirt, the hair rough against her sensitive palms, his skin so damned warm she just felt like crawling inside and taking up residence… forever.

"You're what I care about," she whispered into his mouth, her teeth tugging his lower lip out of its normal stern line.

He leaned back and searched her face, his gaze wide and fierce and a blue that pierced her heart with its intensity. "_Not_ an aberration."

"No, dammit," she groaned, closing her eyes as he slowly sank into her welcoming body until barely room for a breath remained. Despite the urgency shimmering between them, he held himself stock still, thighs tense against hers as his hands supported her back.

"So beautiful."

Opening her eyes, Karen followed his gaze to where their bodies were most closely joined, sucking in a sharp breath at how right they looked—light to dark, lean to curved, hard to soft—a perfect fit.

With a long sigh, she lifted a hand to his cheek, prompting him to look up, into her eyes.

"I want us to be looking into each other's eyes and know what's happening," she said quietly. "Do you know what's happening, Carlton?" Her heart beat faster at how his eyes widened, the pupils dilating until only a thin, brilliant rim of blue surrounded the black.

"Why do you think I've been scared shitless?"

"Don't be. Please" She draped her arms on his shoulders and leaned back against the secure hold of his hands. "Now, take care of me fast and hard so we can get the hell out of here and to somewhere we can do that non-negotiable naked thing."

His mouth opened, but their bodies' demands took over before he could utter a single word, his hips moving roughly against hers, finding the fast hard rhythm they both needed after a week apart. It didn't take much—a few powerful strokes and she was climaxing hard, muffling her cries against his shoulder. A few more strokes and she felt herself close once more, tumbling over as his hand somehow found room between them and stroked her into oblivion, the shudder and pull of her muscles serving to draw his orgasm from him. In an effort to subdue his groans, his mouth sought hers, his tongue stroking against hers in an erotic rhythm mimicking that of their lower bodies and coaxing one final small climax from her—an echo of what they'd just done, a sweet promise for more.

And there would be more. A _lot _more. She had at least a week of his undivided attention to make sure he understood just how much more.

After a few tender moments just holding each other and catching their breath, they hastily put themselves back together and peered out into the hallway, hoping they could make their escape relatively unobserved because really, there was no hiding what they'd just done. She could practically feel herself glowing while Carlton, beyond being uncharacteristically disheveled, looked almost inhumanly smug. Not all that different from his usual smugness, true, but to her eye, there was an air of satisfaction about him that could only be interpreted as "male." And in Karen's experience, only one thing produced that sort of air. She wanted to see more of it. Just in a more private setting.

"Carlton?"

He looked at her over the roof of his car. They'd agreed to rendezvous at her house after he stopped at his condo to shower and pick up a change of clothes.

"Yes?"

"You should probably know that Iris is on vacation with her father for the next two weeks."

His hooded blue gaze darkened as the possibilities she'd left unspoken clearly registered. The corners of his finely etched mouth curved slightly as he slowly drawled, "How do you feel about extending my suspension?"

An answering grin tugged at her mouth. "Do you think your actions merit such a punishment?"

He propped a forearm on the Fusion's roof and pretended to consider her question. "I don't know, Chief, I guess that's up to you. What do you think?"

What she _thought_ was it was a damned good thing the parking lot was open and faced a busy street. Otherwise, the likelihood they'd make it to her house for Round Two was not high.

What she _said_ was, "I think it's going to require more extensive research."

And there he went, digging his front teeth into his lower lip in the way that had been making her knees weak for far longer than he would likely believe.

"What?"

One dark eyebrow rose. "I'm just wondering if this research is going to require my needing more clothes—or fewer."

She lifted an answering brow. "Just make sure it's not anything you care too much about." She slid into her car and opened the window. "Because I can guarantee whatever my final decision, neither you nor your clothes are going to escape unscathed."

The last thing she heard as she pulled away was a fervent, "Ditto."

Yeah.

She might just be extending that suspension another week.


	4. Soaring

**Soaring**

* * *

From a woman who so rarely showed even mild surprise—seven years of dealing with Spencer's antics having most likely inured her to most anything—Karen's visible shock over his admission he had never even so much as attempted to lie down in a hammock, much less spent time idly swinging in one, had left Carlton more than a little nonplussed. After all, what was there to understand? As a kid, even if they'd had one, he wouldn't have had the time, too busy being responsible; as an adult, well, he _still_ hadn't had the time nor could he have conceived of wasting time better spent catching criminals. Anyway, since his divorce, he'd only resided in apartments or more recently, his condo, so there was the not-so-insignificant issue of space—as in, he had none.

She'd listened patiently, the way she always did, dark eyes intent and making him feel as if everything he said was of the utmost import to her, even as she carefully eased him into the wide fabric hammock stretched between two tall trees in her backyard. Next thing he knew, he was on his back, swaying gently as he stared up at a leafy canopy. Only reason he hadn't immediately bolted from the odd, cocoon-like sensation of being cradled by sun-warmed fabric was the fact that Karen then proceeded to drape herself over him, her head a warm comfortable weight on his chest, one smooth thigh between his, her bare foot rubbing his calf.

Rocking gently, her breath a steady warm caress against his chest—and when had those buttons come undone on his shirt anyhow?—and the fingers of one hand meditatively stroking his forearm, he found himself actually _enjoying_ the rare sensation of being idle.

Hell, who was he kidding? Idle was a nice by-product, sure, but it began and ended with the woman in his arms. Working, arguing, having intense, mind-blowing sex, or simply lying in a hammock—it was all good, so long Karen was the other half of the equation.

It all began and ended with Karen.

Dare he dream that big?

"Did you honestly think what we had in D.C. was an aberration?"

Karen's voice was soft, blending with the breezes rustling through the leaves overhead, yet each word emerged crystal clear. He continued stroking her hair, silently thanking her for waiting to drop the inevitable other shoe. After their office interlude yesterday he _had_ briefly considered not showing up as agreed upon in the dizzying heat of afterglow, but then not five minutes after they'd parted his phone had buzzed:

_Don't even think about it._

Followed less than thirty seconds later by another:

_Carlton—please._

As if her first text hadn't been enough. Showing just how very well she knew him—sending that necessary reassurance that she did, indeed, want him.

But that second text…

_Damn_. Just… _damn_.

It was almost as if her voice had drifted from the screen, winding around him in sensual, warm seduction. He could never say no to that voice and the fact that she didn't even have to physically use it?

Carlton might be able to make her beg, but Karen had the ability to bring him to his knees.

"No—I didn't."

Because the other thing that voice demanded was total honesty.

"So you were just scared?"

"Yeah." He stared past her head to their intertwined legs, the sun streaming through the leaves leaving dappled patterns on the bare skin revealed by the shorts they both wore, softening the differences and blending it into a seamless whole.

"It's like," he started hesitantly, yet knowing she wanted to hear this—needed to hear this—and he needed to tell her, "while we were in D.C., we existed in this bizarre parallel world. Yes, during the day, we were our normal, everyday selves—the same people we are here—but we were surrounded by people who don't know us."

"And that somehow made things easier?" Her voice was gentle, her hand soothing as it combed through his hair.

He nodded as his gaze wandered to the leafy canopy overhead, studying the lacy pattern of branches and sun. "It's as if I could handle us being Chief Vick and Detective Lassiter during the day, knowing that when that hotel room door closed behind us, we could be… _us_."

He chanced a look back at her, hoping she understood even as he berated himself because of _course _she understood.

"You didn't think there could be an us once we got back here?"

"I had no idea how it could happen."

She shifted slightly, rolling more fully onto his chest as she drew herself up high enough to look into his face. That ever-perceptive gaze studied him, dark and fathomless and yet so achingly clear, he found himself questioning how he could have ever doubted. Those deep brown eyes were so resolute and steady and really—he was an idiot. Even if he himself wasn't sure how there could be an _us_ after their return, he was an idiot for not having at least expressed his concerns to her. For not having trusted the _want_ that was a near-palpable thing between them.

"It's… been a long time since anyone really wanted to be an 'us' with me," he said quietly.

"Not so long as you think."

His eyebrows rose at her easy response. "Marlowe didn't, really. It was an illusion—on both our parts. Didn't take long to figure out we were neither of us what we wanted—or needed." More on his part than hers. Another failing on his part—another way in which he'd inadvertently hurt someone.

A flash of emotion he couldn't identify crossed her face before settling into a gentle smile.

"Not so long as you think," she repeated, softer than before, but because of it, the words emerged weighted with greater meaning.

"Karen—"

_Dammit._

Because it hadn't been his voice cheerfully calling out her name. For one thing, he never did anything cheerfully. Unless it was busting Spencer's chops. And even that was more quietly gleeful than out and out _cheerful_, none of which mattered, because who the hell was calling Karen's name—_cheerfully_—dammit?

With a sigh that communicated she wasn't exactly thrilled with the interruption either, Karen shifted slightly, sliding to his side, although she kept one leg thrown over his and left her hand on his chest—as if to pin him in place and prevent him from running and hiding.

Knowing him so very well.

"Hey, Joe," she called out briefly lifting her hand to wave at the older man peering over the hedge, eyes narrowing as he took in what was the no doubt surprising sight of his neighbor cuddling up to a strange and potentially dangerous man, if that expression was to be correctly interpreted. It's what Carlton would have immediately thought, which oddly, reassured him.

Her thigh tightening over his, making certain he stayed put, Karen said to him, "Carlton, this is my neighbor, Joe O'Brien—used to be on the job in Los Angeles until he retired."

"Made me retire," he retorted, narrow-eyed gaze still clearly taking Carlton's stock. Dammit, he really wanted to stand up—would feel better if he could _loom_ at least a little, although he wasn't sure how effective it could be, given his wrinkled khaki shorts and haphazardly buttoned shirt.

"And you'd be—?"

Before he could stand and introduce himself—Karen's silent directives to stay put notwithstanding—she broke in with a mild, "Down, Joe—and you too," she added with an amused glance that conveyed she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Cop testosterone," she muttered under her breath, before adding, "Joe, this is Carlton Lassiter."

And damn, if her voice didn't soften on his name, making it emerge just this side of a caress, especially when coupled with how she captured his hand in hers as she glanced back up at the older man whose narrow-eyed expression had faded into a knowing—and if Carlton didn't know better, _pleased_ expression.

"Ah, hell, of course. Just didn't recognize him out of the suits and helmet hair."

Before Carlton could so much as bristle, Joe added, "So… you're Lassiter," in a way that made it clear the recognition had nothing to do with his position as Head Detective.

"I am," he replied, although his gaze was fixed on Karen who, God help him, was blushing and glancing away and looking for all the world, like a sixteen-year-old girl. Which conversely, left him feeling like a sixteen-year-old boy who'd just realized the popular girl he had a mad crush on had been talking about him to her friends.

"So you're the reason she's been saying no to a date with my nephew—perfectly nice boy who works White Collar over in Orange County—for going on two years now."

_Two years?_ So far as he knew she'd only been divorced about six months. And he couldn't even wrap his brain around the other, probably more pertinent, part of Joe's statement because, really, _two years_?

"We were separated for a long while before the divorce was final," she murmured, even as she glared at Joe. "Sound familiar?"

"I… uh—" He swallowed and instead stammered, "You turned down dates because of me?" Because that somehow seemed easier to deal with than _two years?_

Her grin was a thing of shy, alluring beauty while the feel of her foot rubbing his bare calf left him thinking things he probably shouldn't be thinking while lying in a hammock—outdoors—under the watchful eye of Joe, who clearly felt rather protective about Karen.

"She kept turning down the idea of dating, period," Joe broke in, his gravelly voice laced with the exasperation he must have felt, trying to get pretty Karen Vick to go out with his perfectly nice nephew who worked White Collar over in Orange County.

Carlton fought back an instinctive wave of malice toward the nice White Collar nephew as well as the impulse to immediately figure out who the hell the little twerp was and warn him off. She'd said no, after all. And was currently lying in _his_ arms, by God. The nice White Collar nephew could suck it.

"Work and Iris were always her excuses and while Iris is legitimate, using work only goes so far, even for a cop as good as Karen. Then I started noticing when she talked about work, she kept finding ways to mention one Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. Didn't take much beyond that to put two and two together."

As Carlton gaped in shock, Karen said, "Yeah, forgot to mention he was a detective."

"Damned good one," Joe broke in. Carlton could well believe it. Round-faced, with tufts of white hair above his ears, he looked as innocuous as a mall Christmas elf. Must have broken a hell of a lot of perps, looking like someone's harmless grandpa until he turned that glare on.

"Checked you out. Saw you on television. You do like the glare of the spotlight, dontcha, boy?" Carlton's jaw snapped shut as Joe went on, saying, "Not as much as that asshat psychic, though. Can't blame you for coming off as a bit of a pompous prick when you're trying to offset that nonsense as the image of the SBPD."

"Joe!"

Undeterred, the ex-detective continued delivering his profile. "Yet you're not so much pompous as prideful, are you? Not a damned thing wrong with that so long as you don't let it get in the way of the job. The fact you unbend enough to work cases with the asshat and that you've continued to work under Karen's command when it's a job you clearly wanted says you don't."

He nodded as if making a decision. "You'll do."

And with that, he was gone. Stunned, Carlton continued staring at the spot in the hedge where the old man had been, half-expecting to see a wisp of smoke from where he'd dematerialized.

"You'll get used to it."

He eased back into the hammock and resumed staring up into the tree branches arching overhead like a cathedral ceiling. "I will?"

"I hope so."

And there went that voice again.

"He does this often?" he managed, his hand tightening on her waist.

Her eyes darkened with the intent that was beginning to have as great an effect on him as that voice. "Often enough."

"Inside," he muttered, rolling off the hammock and somehow managing to land on his feet and hold Karen steady as well.

"Don't have to tell me twice," she replied, grasping his hand and pulling him towards the house. Once inside, she turned and with a grin, shed her t-shirt before bolting up the stairs.

"Dammit, Karen," he growled, his instant arousal making it damned near painful to navigate the stairs. "If you're going to do something like that, could you at least either stay downstairs or wait until we're both up here?"

"Do something like what?

Carlton stopped, stock still in the doorway to her bedroom, taking in the sight of an already fully nude Karen, lying amidst sheets still rumpled from their morning lovemaking.

"Never mind," he breathed, rapidly unbuttoning his shirt and shedding his shorts on his way to the bed. "Just stay… like that." He ghosted a kiss against each of her breasts he lowered himself to the mattress.

Beneath his hands, she shivered. "For how long?"

"How long have you got?" he murmured as he nuzzled the soft skin of her abdomen before venturing lower.

Just before her thighs closed around his head, muffling sound, her gasped, "How's forever?" wrapped around him—no mistake, no possibility for misinterpretation, and leaving room for all sorts of inspiration. Mouth, tongue, fingers—even the judicious application of teeth were all employed to devastating effect as he brought her to orgasm, once, twice, and after allowing her a very brief respite, a third time, that one causing her to jackknife, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Carlton, _please_."

All of a sudden he found himself on his back as in one smooth motion Karen straddled and took him in hand, sinking down onto him, all heated, tight perfection, making him groan at the sheer welcoming wonder of her body surrounding him. But not close his eyes—not that. Never that. He held her gaze, losing himself in the dark brown depths as she returned his stare with a direct one of her own. A gaze that suggested she Had Plans. Leaning forward, she nuzzled his neck, her teeth worrying the skin of the hickey she'd wasted no time in reestablishing yesterday before she worked her way up his throat, her tongue a slow, sensuous drag along his skin while down below, her hips made leisurely circles, the rhythmic tightening of her muscles a maddening caress that was just enough, yet not anywhere near as much as he wanted.

"Karen," he warned, breaking her rhythm with an impatient thrust that made her breasts brush against his chest with her gasp.

"Shhh…" she whispered, her tongue tracing a devastating path along the rim of his ear before she peppered small kisses along his cheekbone and God help him, the line of his nose. Once more she resumed the slow, devastating circles, punctuating them with the occasional slow rise and fall accompanied by the leisurely drag of her breasts against his chest.

Carlton knew the idea was that the past twenty-four hours had served to take the edge off their appetites. That she'd said "forever." Surely, they could be patient and take their time. Allow the tension and passion to build from a slow burn into something hotter and more intense. But dammit, how to explain to the woman that slow burn was his constant state around her and that all it took to get to fiery passion was a single word or look from her. That the idea they might actually have forever only made him more impatient for forever to start right this damned minute?

Just as he was about to completely lose his mind and his control, she made another sudden move, capturing his mouth with hers, tongue sweeping the inside as she abandoned the slow, mind-bending circular motions, drawing her body nearly completely off his.

"Carlton, please," she breathed into his mouth.

In one swift move, he rolled them over, driving into her with a force that in the past he would have never considered using, except he knew her body—knew how it welcomed his, knew that she'd give it back, hands on his shoulders and thighs around his hips, powering her own thrusts and meeting his with an almost painful intensity that nevertheless felt unbearably sweet.

He sure as hell hoped she'd really meant forever.

Because he was damned sure it would kill him to ever let her go.


	5. Turbulent Skies

**Turbulent Skies**

* * *

_Why are we doing this here when you have a perfectly serviceable office?_

_Because my perfectly serviceable office is nowhere near private enough for this._

"Officer down! Officer down!"

_It's plenty private. Has blinds… locks…_

_Walls of windows… crappy… oh, yes… please, just like that… crappy sound…proofing._

"Penetrating injury. Stab wound. Anterior left shoulder."

_Don't trust me to keep quiet?_

_No, doofus… Don't trust… myself…_

"Son of a bitch—we're losing too much blood! Need more pressure."

_God, Karen, you feel so amazing… what you do to me._

_I…oh, God, Carlton…I—_

_What is it, baby? Tell me what you want._

"Come on, now—come _on_."

_You. I want _you_. I—_

* * *

Two things were immediately clear. She had no idea where she was. And she hurt. A lot.

Everything else, however, was fuzzy—literally—although the more she blinked, the more her surroundings sharpened.

White walls. A steady beeping. Sharp, antiseptic smells meant to convey clean and sterile, but more often reeking of fear.

She hated hospitals. Only once had she ever been in one where the outcome had been pleasant. Carlton had been with her then.

Where was he now?

Swallowing against the stale, cotton dryness in her mouth, she carefully turned her head, wincing at the unexpected pain shooting along her left side. As she slowly shifted her head on the pillow, she took note of the bandages padding her shoulder, the sling holding her arm firmly against her chest.

Curious. But not important. Not right now.

Gritting her teeth, she reached across her body with her right arm, gently resting her hand on the dark head nestled in the curve of her waist, lashes unable to fully obscure the bruised shadows marring the fair skin beneath his eyes. Immediately, those eyes opened, the blue sharp and alert and despite the angry red rimming them, undeniably relieved.

"Thank God."

"Carlton—you're hurt." Her throat burned under the strain of those few words—ignoring the pain she repeated, "You're hurt," while around her, the beeping grew louder and more insistent, bringing with it a flurry of activity.

_"No_, not me—him." She batted at the hands touching, and the lights flashing, and the voices buzzing in an angry, incessant drone. _"Him_—"

"Karen."

"I'm the Ch-Chief… She cursed the weakness coloring her words, fought past the pain to regain her accustomed authority. "Take… take care of him… first."

"Karen, I'm _fine_."

"No—"

Tendrils of hair caught in her lashes as she shook her head, a searing pain shooting along her left side. As if from a distance she hear Carlton barking, "Back off—knocking her out again isn't going to do a damned bit of good."

"Carlton—" And how she hated the weak whimpering of her voice, but this was important— "Let them help you. Please"

"_Karen_." All of a sudden, he was there, his face close to hers, blocking out the chatter and the lights and the touching of everyone who wasn't him. His familiar warmth surrounded her and almost immediately, she felt herself calm, even though she'd seen the blood, knew he had to be hurt. "I'm _fine_."

"No," she groaned, unwilling to dismiss what she'd seen. All that blood obscuring the pale blue shirt he'd worn to work. The one she loved because of how it deepened the blue of his eyes. The one to which she'd resewn the buttons, laughing that it was only fair, since she was the one who'd ripped them off in the first place.

"I promise. Look—" Easing back slightly, he rapidly unbuttoned his shirt and taking her right hand, placed it on his chest, over his heart, beating strongly, the skin warm and hair-roughened and as he gently moved her hand around, smooth and completely unmarred.

"I'm fine," he repeated softly as he leaned back in, holding her hand over his heart. "You're the one who was hurt. You're in the hospital. And if you want to get out any time soon, you have to settle down."

"You wouldn't," she whispered.

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth even as a visible shadow dimmed his eyes to an unfamiliar gray with only a hint of blue lurking in their depths. "Yeah, well, you're not me." Turning his head, he nodded at someone just beyond her field of vision. A moment later, everything went fuzzy, including Carlton, fading in and out, becoming more remote with each passing second.

"Carlton—"

"Shh…" His dark head lowered, his lips brushing across her forehead almost as if in benediction. "It's just so you can rest."

She didn't want to, however. Not without him there. It was important to keep him there—she had to keep him safe. "Don't go."

"Not going anywhere, Karen. Not without you."

She fought to stay focused on his gaze—using it as an anchor. "Holding you to that," she murmured as she slid into a soothing, deep blue-tinged sleep.

* * *

He'd kept his promise. At least physically.

He had been there when she'd next woken and every time after. He'd been with her, holding her good hand as the doctor explained the extent of her injury: how the assailant's weapon—an eighteenth-century Mughal dagger stolen from the museum's Art of War exhibit—had penetrated her shoulder, the wicked, curved blade nicking an artery and causing unexpected blood loss. Surgery had repaired as much as possible, but nerves had also been damaged in the attack. She would require physical therapy and it was possible she would experience lingering effects from the wound, possibly for the rest of her life, but all in all, he made a point of reiterating, she was very, _very _lucky.

Very.

Karen hadn't missed how Carlton's hand had trembled in hers at the doctor's pronouncement.

He had been there when her ex arrived with Iris for a visit, and even though he'd offered to leave—to give her privacy—she wouldn't let him.

_Couldn't_, truth be known.

A lifetime of self-sufficiency left Karen a little reluctant to spell out exactly what that meant, but given that ruthless honesty was another aspect of her nature, she forced herself to examine the desire more closely. To acknowledge the simple fact that she needed him. Far beyond the physical want she'd acknowledged long before their first sexual encounter, she needed Carlton Lassiter like she'd never needed anyone before. Needed him in the room as a buffer against the faint anger and disapproval emanating from her ex as she explained to a frightened Iris that Mommy had had a run-in with a bad guy but that even though she'd been hurt, she'd won, because she had people like Carlton there to help her and the bad guy would never, _ever_ hurt anyone else again.

It had damn near broken her, watching Iris turn to Carlton and demand _his_ reassurance—elicit his promise that Mommy would be okay—that he would take care of her. Watching _him_ kneel to bring himself to the little girl's height, and with his blue gaze meeting her brown, solemnly swear, crossing his heart and everything.

Upon her release, he'd once again been there, walking alongside the wheelchair, helping her into his waiting car, driving her home—clean and fresh as if she'd only just stepped out for a moment—and not surprisingly, having arranged to take four weeks of his considerable accrued leave. The same four weeks the doctor had decreed she would need before being cleared to return to work.

She'd tried arguing with him, saying she appreciated his thoughtfulness, but he couldn't possibly want to stay away from work for so long. It was unthinkable—Head Detective Carlton Lassiter—restricted from duty for a _month_?

Moreover, it was unnecessary—even if a little corner of her wanted it desperately.

It was like arguing with Mount Rushmore.

Impassive and granite hard, leaving her voice bouncing back in a taunting echo. Even after she threatened to fire him all he did was lift an eyebrow, hand her a pain pill, and return to the kitchen where he was making her favorite chicken and dumplings.

He prepared her coffee just the way she liked it and brought her cannoli from her favorite Italian bakery and shared the paper with her and on Sundays, worked the crossword with her, affably arguing over clues. When Iris returned from her father's after the first week, he smoothly assumed Karen's turn in the carpool and helped with homework and made lunches as if they were tasks he'd been doing all along. He took her to doctor's appointments and to physical therapy and helped her do her exercises at home.

He slept beside her and held her through the nightmares that left her shaking and terrified, soothing her with reassurances that he was there, that he had her—he would always have her. He kissed her good morning and good night and kissed her at moments in between, just because and if there was a little more intent and meaning behind each kiss—if it felt as if it mattered more—well then, that was because it did. Everything mattered more.

For all intents and purposes, they were closer than they'd ever been before.

If it weren't for the distance in his gaze. The brittle shell surrounding him that threatened to shatter at any given moment.

They were no longer a secret, she knew. She'd seen the knowledge of it in O'Hara's face the first time she visited her in the hospital. A few days later, after Karen's release, she stopped by to drop off a casserole and some cold case files Carlton had requested; with O'Hara there, Carlton took advantage of the opportunity to run back by his condo to pick up some forgotten items and Karen took advantage of the opportunity to engage the other woman in a rare, personal conversation.

"He won't say a word about what happened beyond what the doctor told me. Won't let me see the incident report either."

"That's because I wrote the incident report and _I_ won't let him see it. Not yet." O'Hara regarded her steadily over her coffee mug. "As for not telling you what happened, I'm not sure he can."

Karen winced as she settled herself more comfortably against the pillows Carlton had piled behind her on the sofa. "Come again?"

"I'm saying, I don't think he fully remembers. I don't think he wants to." In a softer voice she added, "The second the perp attacked you, he was on him and beating him to within an inch of his life. Only reason the guy's not dead is because you called Carlton's name. Said you needed him. And he took hold of you and wouldn't let go, not even for the EMT crew. They had to threaten to sedate him. Then it was iffy for a while with the way you were bleeding and he was just holding on to your hand and talking to you and—"

Juliet's voice drifted off on a shuddery sigh. "I've never seen him like that. Ever."

Setting her mug on the coffee table she leaned back in her chair, a study in outward calm, but Karen noted the faint tremor in her hand as she released the mug's handle, the subtle thinning of her lips and slight flare of her nostrils as she inhaled.

"None of us ever noticed," she said quietly, staring off into the distance and Karen knew it was a pose Juliet had to have assumed many times over the last few days, mentally reviewing the last several months, trying to pinpoint, to assess, to figure out when in _hell_ her partner and her boss had not simply started an affair, but had fallen in love.

At least, Karen had.

"None of us noticed a damned thing."

"Five months, give or take." Rubbing her forehead, Karen answered the question she knew Juliet was too tactful to directly ask. "We never intentionally set out to keep it a secret. But it certainly didn't seem to be to anyone's benefit to advertise it, either."

The truth of the matter, though, was it had been theirs.

A private world that initially belonged solely to them then, as weeks passed, expanded to include Iris, their lives mellowing into an easy ebb and flow while their sensual escapes remained as intense as ever. In short, a couple, much like any other. Simply not in a way where their work personas and their private personas intersected. A version of that parallel existence that had defined the first week of their relationship so many months ago, where they were Chief Vick and Detective Lassiter during the day and Karen and Carlton the rest of the time.

Funny how the rest of the time was what felt more real. Chief Vick and Detective Lassiter feeling increasingly more like roles played just until they could get to be themselves again.

And without ever discussing it, they'd come to the agreement that their time as Karen and Carlton was theirs and precious and needed to be protected at all costs.

"Chief—"

"Karen," she broke in. "I think at this point, we're beyond Chief and O'Hara, don't you?"

With a nod and a rueful smile, Juliet acknowledged the shift. "Karen, he's going to need to talk. Sooner rather than later."

Karen sighed—better able now to piece together what had happened between the doctor's report and what Juliet had just shared, she couldn't deny the wisdom of the younger woman's words. "I could mandate a psych eval, I suppose, or at least authorize you to do it in my stead."

Juliet lifted a brow. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, I _know_. But it's not as if he's exactly been forthcoming with me."

"Well, he's been a damned Sphinx with me. He's bottling something up and while I know he's a master of repression, something about this feels… off. I'm really worried about his potential return to the field." Her fine, light brows drew together. "I don't want anything to happen to him."

A shaft of fear pierced Karen's heart. "That makes two of us."

* * *

The next couple of weeks passed smoothly enough, Carlton outwardly fine, but that brittle shell remained—his gaze not so much distant, Karen decided, as turned inward. So quiet, even in the midst of conversation. Something weighed heavily on him and so long as they'd been dealing with the immediate aftermath of her injury—the pain and the drugs and the settling into a new routine—she'd been content enough to let him be, lacking the energy to confront him and hoping that at some point he'd want to talk.

It was in the middle of week three, just post-appointment where the doctor had freed her from the infernal sling, while in the midst of an impromptu celebratory lunch of Philly cheesesteaks down by the beach, that the realization hit her out of the blue like the proverbial bolt of lightning. The quiet, that brittleness—it wasn't due to his being upset or sad or guilty or worried or any of the other possibilities she'd been mulling ever since her talk with Juliet.

No.

Carlton Lassiter was _pissed_.

Supremely, monumentally, stuff-of-legends pissed.

_Dammit—how could I have not realized?_

"Are we going to talk about this?"

She'd used those exact words with him, once before, for far different reasons, yet equally high stakes. Then, it had been about getting him to believe—to trust what they had was real. Now, though—

Now she had the far harder task of getting him to believe and trust that Fate—that fickle bitch, as he'd been known to refer to her—was not conspiring to take her away from him.

It would take a hell of a lot more than Fate to take her away from him.

"About what?" He took a bite of his sandwich, attention seemingly focused on winding the long, thin string of melted cheese around his index finger and sucking it clean. Watching him, Karen felt a familiar weakness overtake her as well as an overwhelming desire to grab his hand and suck that finger clean herself. It had been too long—since the day of the attack, as it happened—a quick, naughty, laughter-and-lust filled interlude in a forgotten annex off the Records storage room.

Less than a half hour later they'd gotten the call about a robbery gone horribly wrong at the Museum of History and not long after that, she'd found herself in a standoff with a very young, very inexperienced, and very panicked thief.

"Carlton."

Abruptly balling up the remainder of his sandwich, he tossed it in a nearby trashcan, each motion jerky and uncoordinated and recalling a long-ago Carlton—one she hadn't seen in years and certainly not in the last five months. His glacier blue gaze raked over her.

"We aren't doing this here."

"Fine." She pushed herself to a standing position, crumpling the wrapper around her sandwich. A moment later, she stared down at her feet as Carlton bent slowly, picking up the sandwich that had dropped to the ground, slipping from fingers suddenly gone nerveless, a near-painful tingling radiating from her shoulder and down her arm.

He tossed the remains of her sandwich in the can with a vicious flick of his wrist, face tight with the anger she was now realizing ran far deeper than the brittle shell with which he'd surrounded himself the past several weeks. If anything, that shell had served to keep the anger contained—allowed him to outwardly function. Now, though, she'd up and cracked the surface, fissures appearing like those across the thin lava dome of a volcano—just enough to allow some warming blasts of steam to escape.

The big-ass blow was imminent.


	6. Rough Air

**Rough Air**

* * *

Carlton didn't want to fight. At least, not with Karen. Fighting criminals, fighting Spencer, fighting the world, hell, even fighting O'Hara—he might not always like it, but he was okay with it. He was _used_ to it. Fighting his demons? _That_, he was really damned used to. In this case, all he'd wanted was to fight them privately and quietly—to have enough time to wrestle the little bastards into submission and banish them to the dark corners of his mind where he could lock them down tight.

It had always worked before—it would work again. It _had_ to.

But then Karen had skewered him with that deep brown gaze, her sudden realization of the truth reflecting back at him and he knew, the demons had won this round.

A foreboding silence cloaked the drive home, setting his nerves even more on edge, but rather than turn on him the second they crossed the threshold, Karen had instead disappeared up the stairs without a word. Part of him was undeniably relieved.

The bigger part of him felt the instinctive, nagging worry that had dogged him every day for the last three-and-a-half weeks.

The bedroom, when he pushed the door open, was deserted, but for the clothes she'd been wearing, discarded in an uncharacteristically untidy pile on the floor. The coward in him—the one who habitually shied away from emotional confrontation because he was so damned bad at it—wanted to give her the privacy she appeared to need.

Except he was as tired of the coward winning as he was the demons.

Crossing the room, he slowly pushed open the door to the bathroom, his breath catching at the sight of Karen, clad only in bra and panties, staring at her reflection in the big mirror mounted behind the vanity.

"It's going to leave a scar," she said softly, her critical gaze never wavering.

"It is."

He watched as her fingers lightly traced the healing wound. The surgeons had been able to repair most of the damage without opening her up too much further than the initial injury and while it was currently a raised, angry reddish-purple, she'd been assured it would fade in time. Never completely disappear though—it would be a mark she'd bear forever. A reminder. For both of them.

Her voice was soft. "Does it bother you?"

"No."

"Liar."

His chest constricted painfully at the quiet certainty in the single word.

Damn her.

Damn her for guessing.

Damn her for guessing right.

Yet so incredibly wrong.

"This," he said softly, coming up behind her and tracing the scar as she had, "in no way bothers me. It never will. Not the way you think." His stomach clenched at the sensation of jagged, rough texture beneath his fingers as his mind replayed the horrific image of the dagger piercing her body, the widening of her eyes, dark with sudden shock and terror as she realized what had happened.

The next clear memory he had was of holding Karen in his arms, his own hands bruised and aching as he snarled like a cornered badger at anyone who tried to get too close.

She leaned back against him, the worry holding her lovely face in unhappy lines relaxing as she sighed.

"What's going on, Carlton?"

Her wince, as she lifted her left hand to cover his, had him stepping back, putting distance between them as his hands began shaking with the uncontrollable anger he'd been fighting for weeks. Since the horrific moment that curved blade had sliced through fabric and skin and muscle and made her cry out in a way he never wanted to hear again, yet that he knew, would haunt him. Every damned time she—

"You shouldn't have ever been there."

"Excuse me?" He caught a brief glimpse of her eyes widening in the mirror before she whirled and he felt the full impact of her incredulous—and undeniably angry—stare.

Good.

It was about damned time he had some company out here in Righteously Pissed-Off Land.

"You should never have been there, Karen and you damned sure had no business engaging that punk. Seriously, what the hell were you thinking?"

Her skin paled, but for the two angry red splotches on her cheek and the livid scar alongside the pale line of her bra strap.

"Excuse me?" she repeated, softer. In his right mind, he would have recognized the danger lurking beneath that soft tone, and part of him was still cognizant enough to recognize it, but he _wasn't_ in his right mind. He was sick with terror and fury unlike any he'd ever experienced and he didn't know what to do— Couldn't imagine what would have happened if—

If—

"You had no business being there," he repeated stubbornly, even as the demons battered away at his ribcage, attepting to break free. "You're the damned Chief of Police."

"I'm a cop, Carlton. Just like you or O'Hara or McNab."

"No, you're _not_." Each word was clipped and icy calm and completely, inescapably wrong—he knew that—but the right words remained trapped in his throat, choking him, only allowing the short, simple, stupid words to escape. All the wrong words.

"What exactly are you saying?" Her eyes narrowed as her fists clenched and even that motion, he could see, cost her, her left fist falling open, lips thinning with pain and frustration and further fueling his anger.

He shook his head, teeth digging into his lower lip, a sharp, coppery taste trickling back into his throat, another layer of nausea.

"He had a bag of priceless artifacts and was trying to get away—what was I supposed to do? Let him go?"

"How about call for backup?"

"I did—" Her expression softened, clearly having recognized the pain lacing his voice and he could tell, she'd guessed again, but she still hadn't quite guessed right. "And you came, didn't you?"

"But you didn't wait."

"He was just a kid—scared as hell. There was no reason to think I couldn't talk him down—at least stall him until you could get there."

"He was a paranoid schizophrenic manipulated and exploited by the leader of the crew into a heightened sense of fear. He was a ticking time bomb, Karen."

"There was no way for any of us to know that," she argued and he knew she was right—that everything she said was right—but—

"You could have been killed!"

"And so could you!"

"It's my _job_."

"And mine."

"But it doesn't have to be." He advanced on her, furious that even now, she wouldn't back down, holding her ground, staring up at him, angry and defiant and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "You don't have to put yourself on the line like that."

Her eyes turned nearly amber she all but snarled, "And what kind of leader would that make me?"

"One who stays alive, dammit." The flat of his palm slammed against the wall above her head and even that didn't make her flinch, damn her stubborn hide. In a rush, Carlton's anger drained away, leaving him exhausted and more defeated than he'd ever felt before in his life. Even the crumbling of his marriage paled in comparison to this failure.

He would never be able to convince Karen to back down. To stay out of danger. To keep herself safe.

Honestly, he'd known it was a losing battle—she was too good a cop to ever back down—but he'd hoped…if she only understood…

"Now you know how I feel."

He stared blankly, registering only the feel of her hands gently resting on his ribcage and the all-consuming depths of her eyes—dark and warm and inviting him to sink into the comfort promised along with her touch.

"Every damned time we get the call to send a team out, every time a case goes pear-shaped and you're facing off against a psychopath or a cop gone bad or a parent whose grief has been grossly misdirected—every time I hear about shots being fired or that an officer has engaged a perp in direct hand-to-hand combat—I have to sit and wait and hope to hell that when those doors swing open, you're going to come striding up the stairs, cocky and arrogant and acting like it's just another day on the job, because it is."

Her hands gripped his shirt. "And every time you come back, cocky and arrogant and okay, I have to take myself off to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall and wait for the shaking to stop because no one can see that from me—_ever_—because I'm the Chief and it's my job to send the best people out to catch the bad guys and keep the city safe and you, Carlton—you're the best and I have no choice but to send you out. And even if I didn't, out of some misguided intent to try to keep you safe, you'd go anyway, because it's who you are."

Her hands moved to cup his face, warm and secure, even as small tremors continued to tremble through them.

"And I love who you are, even if it scares the crap out of me." She rose on tiptoe and brought her mouth to his, whispering against his lips, "And even if the thought of losing you breaks my heart."

Dear God, she'd guessed.

She'd guessed right.

He stood, helpless beneath her kiss, gentle and exploratory in a way their earliest kisses had never been. Those had been all about heat and want and lust. The same emotions living in this kiss, but only as accompaniment to the greater emotions underscoring the caress, the intense fear and love making him hold her close.

Slowly, tenderly, she explored his mouth, her tongue tracing the outline of his lips, gradually venturing further in, teasing the edges of his teeth, meeting the tip of his tongue in an almost shy game of tag, gradually growing bolder, stroking against his in an increasingly erotic rhythm. Her hands moved to the front of his shirt, swiftly undoing buttons and spreading the fabric wide, her fingertips sweeping across his chest in wide arcs, nails lightly scoring his nipples and making white lights streak behind his closed lids.

And it felt so damned good and it had been so long, but he had to be careful of her—had to take care of _her_—but when he tried to move, tried to steer them toward the bedroom, to take control, she shook her head, even that motion a scintillating caress, leaving him weak-kneed and frozen against the wall.

Apparently, exactly where she wanted him, as her hands moved with purpose along his torso to the front of his slacks, swiftly undoing belt and button and zipper, pushing fabric down as she sank to her knees.

"Karen," he managed weakly, his hand resting on her head, his brain insisting he stop her, that _he_ needed to take care of her, while heart and soul gave himself over to the sheer relief and amazing sensation of having her take care of him. And in the deepest recesses of his brain, he even managed to recognize _her_ need to care for him.

Hands and mouth and teeth and tongue and breath worked in concert, warm and all-encompassing, no attention too small, no part of him left unattended, until he was left, slumped against the wall, freefalling, hands opening and closing desperately, groping for purchase until her hands captured them, lacing their fingers tightly together as she brought him to the edge and took him right over, showing no interest in playing games or teasing or drawing this out for long, interminable moments.

That was for later—for another time.

Right now, she was letting him know this was all about him—his fear, his tension, and the release of both he so desperately needed.

This was Karen forgiving him his anger because she understood it all too well.

God, but he'd been an idiot—not realizing. Not understanding. Never dreaming she'd…

_Dear God… never dreaming I'd be here with Karen… like this…_

While he was still gasping for air and trying to will his heart rate back to something that could be considered safe, she rose and draped herself against him for a brief moment before pressing a kiss to his chest and leaving the room.

It wasn't until late that night, after car pool and homework and dinner and an hour of television and bathtime and bedtime, that Carlton once again had Karen to himself. In the dark, her body molded to his, he was finally able to voice the question that had been burning ever since their electrifying encounter in the bathroom.

Longer, really—the question that had burned since she had first turned into his arms with the certainty he finally, truly accepted.

"How long?"

She sighed, her bare foot rubbing his calf in a way meant to soothe rather than arouse.

"I honestly don't know, Carlton. It wasn't just Drimmer or Salamatchia or Yin—although those certainly didn't help—it was all the every day incidences. They all just started adding up and scaring me more and more until I finally had to take a step back and ask myself why. Why sending you out into the field terrified me more than even sending out the most inexperienced cop. Why I had to think twice about sending you into a dangerous situation and yet didn't blink at the idea of a civilian consultant like Spencer in the same spot."

"That's actually not so surprising," he broke in, grinning as he felt her chuckle vibrate along his side.

"Be nice," she chided.

"I am." Carlton took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. "I'm _very_ nice."

"That you are." She shivered and molded herself more closely to him. "Are we okay?" she asked softly and for once, he actually _heard_ the unasked question. The one his brave, fearless Karen was too scared to voice out loud, worried of what the answer might be.

Mindful of her shoulder, he rolled over, holding himself suspended above her. A faint combination of moonlight and light from the streetlamp streamed through the curtains, illuminating her with an ethereal silver glow. Brushing her hair back, he gazed down into her face, at the beautiful dark eyes, the elegant graceful curves of cheekbones and brows, and jaw, the full mouth, turned up in a bemused smile, and marveled yet again that she was there with _him_. Likely he'd marvel that every day for the rest of his life.

"You're an amazing cop, Karen," he began softly, his thumb tracing the full curve of her lower lip. "Easily one of the best I have ever had the honor of working with. I trust your judgment and your ability and would go into the field with you at any time or place."

"But—"

"But you're also the woman I'm in love with—the woman it would absolutely kill me to lose." As his hand trembled against her face, hers rose to cover it and hold it steady. "It was too damned close, Karen."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she whispered, her eyes shining with an unmistakable sheen of wetness. "I'm so damned sorry. You have to know I'd never put you through that on purpose. But you know I'd do it again, right?"

He sighed. "I know. And I wouldn't have you any other way. I just—I can't—" To his horror, his voice broke and he couldn't finish, the words trapped in his throat by a far greater fear than even what he'd been living with. Luckily, he didn't have to speak further, as Karen drew his head down to her good shoulder, cool fingers stroking his temples and into his hair.

"It's hell loving a cop." She sighed, her chest rising and falling beneath his cheek.

"I'd think with me, being a cop is the least of the hell."

"Stop it." Her fingers tugged gently at his hair. "Yes, you're a pain in the ass, but most of your pain in the ass tendencies happen to be directly tied into your being a cop."

"You saying _I _should quit?"

She smoothed his brows down from where they'd climbed his forehead. "Hell no—your being a cop is also among the very best of your qualities."

"And yet you still love me?" He could hear the wonder in his voice, scarcely hardly believe it, even as he felt the strength of her love surrounding him.

"I do. Kind of hopelessly and unreservedly as a matter of fact."

He smiled and pressed a kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder beside the strap of her camisole. "You're a twisted woman, you know that?"

"Well, we still have to be careful of my shoulder, but I _am_ pretty flexible. We can test out how truly twisted I am."

Arousal running fast and hot through his body, he rolled, bringing her over him. "It might take practice."

"It's okay." Her thighs closed around his waist as her hands slowly skimmed his t-shirt up his torso. "We've got time."


End file.
